


Since Eden

by cellostiel



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 06:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellostiel/pseuds/cellostiel
Summary: "I… I hold you very dear. I dare say I…" Aziraphale's mouth works, but whatever finishes that sentence doesn't seem to want to come out. After a few moments, Aziraphale heaves a put-upon sigh, and says, "I care for you a great deal. I am sorry that I hurt you."Crowley scoffs, more as a kneejerk than an actual reaction. "Hurt me?" he finds himself saying. "Like something like that couldhurtme."~In which Crowley has to actually deal with his emotions, and Aziraphale is maybe just a bit better at this than he is.





	Since Eden

**Author's Note:**

> Hello guess who got a new hyperfixation after watching the entire series in one day!! I'm still figuring out how to write these two, so please forgive any awkwardness that may pop up. 
> 
> (I mostly listened to Snow Patrol and Sara Bareilles while writing this and both have _excellent_ music to write these two to. "It's Beginning to Get to Me" and "Poetry by Dead Men" especially get to me ;-;)
> 
> ((Also, it's not explicit in this one, but my hc for Crowley is that he's trans, and I always keep that in the back of my mind when writing him!))
> 
> Please enjoy!!

The day the apple came down from the tree and humankind gained Knowledge, Crowley met the love of his eternal life.

He did not know this right away, of course. He did, however, know that this was the first angel that he'd found worth talking to that didn't end up Falling. He knew that this angel, while constantly reminding them both that Crowley was a demon and 'the enemy', was the only being, angel and demon alike, that had ever treated Crowley like an intelligent being worthy of respect. Or laughed at one of his jokes, however briefly.

He knew that Aziraphale was someone worth knowing. And, more importantly, he knew that Aziraphale was someone he  _ wanted _ to get to know. 

It happened slowly, then, he thinks. It was not one thing or event that set permanent hooks into the cavity in Crowley's chest where his heart might be. No, he just began noticing that Aziraphale could talk him into doing things (not  _ nice _ things, Heaven, no, but dangerously close) that he would never do of his own volition. Worse, he found himself doing things for Aziraphale without even being asked. If a demon ever thought of anyone other than themself, they thought of Lord Satan, and how best to tempt humans to Hell. But there Crowley was, saving Aziraphale's books, setting aside a curio he thought Aziraphale might find interesting, making note of new food Aziraphale might like. 

That night that Aziraphale showed up in Crowley's car with a thermos of Holy Water, dangerous thoughts bounced around in Crowley's head. Aziraphale made it clear how much he hated the favor, and Crowley understood. But he brought it anyway, put out his neck for Crowley. No one had ever done something like that for Crowley before. Let alone because, dare he say, they  _ cared _ for him and his well being. His "I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go." ended up meaning more than he meant it to. Vague thoughts of his flat passed through his mind, or perhaps a secluded, starlit park, but Aziraphale's skittish "You go too fast for me, Crowley." was a splash of cold water to the face. 

After the angel left, Crowley was faced with an important truth that he had been ignoring.

He was hopelessly, unimaginably in love with Aziraphale. 

Then began a game, of sorts. It's not one that Crowley plays intentionally, but he can't seem to stop playing it, either. It's called "pretend you're not in love with your best friend so he can never reject you and it doesn't make him leave you." There's a shorter name to be found, certainly, but Crowley hasn't bothered to find one. 

The game goes like this: Crowley tramps down his feelings when they insistently pop up around Aziraphale, pretends he doesn't care about the angel past the favors they owe each other, and lashes out when things get too close to anything near vulnerability. He often forgets the rules to the game, however, and has a rude awakening moments later, chiding himself for letting pesky emotions take him over, covering it all up with a piece of wit or a tale of his misdeeds.

Armageddon comes, and Aziraphale breaks Crowley's heart (or what would be his heart, should he turn out to have one) about three separate times. Once in the bandstand, once on the street outside his shop, and once in a blazing fire. Admittedly, that last one wasn't entirely his fault, but it still wasn't pleasant to experience. 

After Armageddon is averted, Crowley finds himself rather for want of something to do. Hell is no longer sending him orders, and it's odd, not having them breathing down his neck. He still has plenty of ideas for misdeeds to be done, of course, but it's not the  _ same. _

He finds himself in St. James park, throwing bread to ducks and trying not to think about Aziraphale, which is turning out to be much harder said than done. For instance, feeding bread to ducks is only reminding him of a decade or so ago when Aziraphale discovered that bread can be harmful to the water and the ducks themselves, and began instead bringing bags of seeds to their meetings here. This thought leads Crowley to thinking about Aziraphale reviving the dove that perished in his coat during his so-called 'magic' show, which leads to thoughts of Aziraphale's shoddy human 'magic' tricks, which leads to that dreadful dinner they had with Harry Houdini (a fine enough human, were it not for the fact that he encouraged Aziraphale's 'magic'), where Aziraphale spent the whole time practicing that coin trick that he still can't seem to get right. 

He's so  _ embarrassing. _ Why does Crowley even- well. You know. It's still hard to admit, even to himself. It's only been half a century since he figured it out, after all. By all accounts, Crowley shouldn't be able to stand Aziraphale. But somehow, all the angel's quirks are… endearing. Like his struggle to remember French when he could just Miracle the knowledge into his head, or his excitement with food despite the unfortunate consequences it can have later, or using the angel-wing mug that Crowley got for him and actually seeming to sincerely enjoy it. 

Bless it. He's completely fucked. 

"Might I join you?" comes a nervous voice from his right. Crowley doesn't visibly startle, but it's a close thing. 

"Sure." he says, and keeps his eyes carefully on the pond as Aziraphale takes a seat next to him. 

"Crowley…" Aziraphale begins, and the space in Crowley's chest where his heart might be sinks at the tone, dropping even further when Aziraphale continues, "We should talk."

Nothing good, in Crowley's six millennia of experience, has ever been preceded with the words 'we need to talk.' "What about." he says, flippant in the hope that Aziraphale won't see the dread building in him.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and Crowley braces himself. This must be it, then. Aziraphale has had enough of him, and with Heaven and Hell leaving them both alone, there's no need for their Arrangement anymore. Aziraphale is done with him, and he's going to lose his best friend again, only for good this time. "I'm sorry, Crowley," Aziraphale says, and Crowley winces. Apologizing will only make it worse. "About what I said before." 

What? Crowley peeks at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, says, "What does that mean?"

"In the bandstand. We  _ are _ friends, Crowley. And I do like you. Very much so, in fact. I suppose I was scared." What? "Which isn't any excuse," Aziraphale hurries to correct, "but I wanted to tell you. You… you're the closest friend I have, Crowley." Crowley's skin crawls with the intensity of not only Aziraphale's tone, but his expression. "I… I hold you very dear. I dare say I…" Aziraphale's mouth works, but whatever finishes that sentence doesn't seem to want to come out. After a few moments, Aziraphale heaves a put-upon sigh, and says, "I care for you a great deal. I am sorry that I hurt you."

Crowley scoffs, more as a kneejerk than an actual reaction. "Hurt me?" he finds himself saying. "Like something like that could  _ hurt _ me."

Aziraphale replies, unruffled, "Well, all the same. I am sorry for denying what we are to each other. I never want you to think that I do not care for you, Crowley." 

Crowley, on the other end of the bench, is  _ very _ ruffled. It is one thing to infer another's care for you through their actions, it is another thing  _ entirely _ to have them spell it out for you in such plain terms. "What should that matter to me?" he croaks. 

Aziraphale looks down at his hands, embarrassed. "Ah, I suppose I… I may have been presumptuous. Over the centuries, I had gotten the impression that you felt similarly. You yourself said we were friends…" 

"I'm a demon." Crowley says woodenly. "Who's to say I wasn't trying to trick you when I said that?"

"Perhaps." Aziraphale says. Then he looks up, meeting Crowley's eyes through the shades, and says, " _ Would _ you lie to me, Crowley?"

"I'm a demon." Crowley repeats, mouth dry.

"And I am an angel." Aziraphale replies. "But I've lied to you. Clearly what we are does not quite match our natures." Slowly, he asks, "Did you lie to me then, Crowley? Or are we friends?"

Crowley's chest is tight, and he's not entirely sure why. "Yeah." he breathes. "We're friends." 

Aziraphale smiles. "I thought so." His smile sombers, and he says, "Do you remember that little church in the 1940's?"

"The one the Nazis had you at gunpoint in?" Crowley asks, frowning. "Why?"

"I think that was where I realized." Aziraphale says, staring off towards the pond. "I think it had been happening for some time, but it only came to my attention then. You saved my books for me, without being asked, without looking for thanks, without  _ thinking,  _ and… and I thought to myself, ' _ my, he acts so crude, but he really is rather sweet, isn't he?' _ And I realized that I… I held a certain amount of affection for you. A great amount, in fact. So much that it terrified me." He glances at Crowley, who has gone stock still, then shies away again, saying, "Ah, but you probably… being friends with someone and caring for them so deeply… are two separate things, aren't they?" 

There's a part of Crowley that is screaming, jumping up and down in his head, saying  _ 'No! No, you've got it wrong! There is no one that I care about more than you, no one else I could even come close to saying was my friend. I want you to stay with me until the End of Days, I want to stay next to you, even when you're reading one of your stupid prophecy books, I want to fucking yell at you until you  _ **_understand_ ** _ how much I-' _ at which point it is interrupted by the part of Crowley that makes enormously bad decisions saying, "Yeah. They are."

Aziraphale nods, mostly to himself. "Right. That's what I thought. Just ignore me, then. You know how I sometimes ramble." 

Hot guilt washes over Crowley, startling him. Guilt is not an emotion that he normally experiences. 

"Well, that is all I wanted to say." Aziraphale says, a distinct note of dejection in his voice. He puts his hands on his knees and pushes himself to his feet, offering Crowley a polite smile as he says, "I'll just be going, then. Be seeing you, Crowley." 

Something gives. Crowley's hand shoots out, quite of its own volition, and grabs Aziraphale by the sleeve. "Wait." he says. 

"Crowley?" 

"It's not fucking fair, you know that?" Crowley says, very determinedly staring at the ground. Staring at the ground is good, great,  _ fabulous, _ because it means he's not looking at Aziraphale, and he can trick himself into believing that he's talking to the worm he can hear burrowing near his foot and not the angel he's currently clinging to for dear life. 

"Pardon me?" Aziraphale says. 

"These things are so blessed  _ difficult, _ but you just-  _ say them. _ It's infuriating!"

"Crowley," Aziraphale says softly, "I don't understand."

"It's bullshit!" Crowley spits. "Humans do it every God blessed day like it's  _ nothing, _ I should be able to do this!"

"Crowley, really, I'm not sure what you're-" 

"I don't know how to tell you that I fucking love you, and I hate it!"

Silence falls, and Crowley is somehow both hot with shame and cold with dread. 

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale breathes. Crowley drops Aziraphale's sleeve like he's been burned. "Crowley, my dear-" 

"Shut up." Crowley tells him, hating how small his voice sounds. "Shut up and go away. I didn't- I didn't  _ mean _ it. I'm a demon, I don't love anything, especially not stupid, goody-good angels."

Carefully, Aziraphale perches next to him on the bench. "You love many things." he says, slowly. "Your car, your shiny, expensive knick knacks, your bourbon…" He twists his hands together, says, "I… for the longest time, I told myself, 'he's a demon: you two are enemies, you can't get too close to him.' Even once I realized that I was just using that as an excuse, I kept on using it, because it was safer. Crowley, I… I've never loved anyone before. I don't quite know how to do this. That scares me. Loving you  _ scares _ me, but I- I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Crowley remains silent, clutching his hand to his stomach and just. Trying to process it all. 

"Do you remember that night I gave you the holy water?" Aziraphale asks. Crowley isn't exactly in a place where he can form words, but Aziraphale doesn't seem to need a response, continuing, "I felt like such a coward that night. I wanted to say yes, I really did." Crowley looks up at the angel, but Aziraphale is looking out at the pond wistfully. "But I wasn't ready. It was too much, too fast. Still… I wish I could have said yes. Since then, I've wondered… when I am ready to say yes, will there still be something there to say 'yes' to?"

"Always," Crowley chokes out. Aziraphale looks over at him in surprise, then smiles softly. 

"Then… might I tempt you to a nightcap at mine?" 

He can't help it; he all but lurches towards Aziraphale, taking his face in his hands, and stops just short, their noses brushing, his mind catching up with his actions and paralyzing him. Aziraphale appears shocked for all of a second before relaxing, placing his hands on Crowley's wrists, and meeting him halfway. Crowley, to his embarrassment, melts into Aziraphale, tilting his head this way while Aziraphale turns his that way, and something warm and, dare he say,  _ fluttery _ fills his chest where his heart might be. Crowley's hands shift so he cups Aziraphale's neck with one hand and the back of his head with the other, and Aziraphale's hands move in kind, coming down to rest on Crowley's ribs and pull him closer. Crowley goes very willingly, vaguely aware that he is practically in Aziraphale's lap and not minding in the least. 

Their kiss goes on for quite a while (you don't need to come up for air when you're immortal, after all), Crowley more than content to stay like this for, say, the next few decades, before Aziraphale pulls back, holding Crowley still to keep him from chasing to close the distance, and says, "Well. Shall I take that as a 'yes?'"

"Only if I can do the same." Crowley says. Aziraphale smiles, eyes crinkling, and reaches up to lift Crowley's sunglasses off his face. He places a hand on Crowley's cheek, thumb stroking just below his eye, and says,

"Always." Then he pulls Crowley back in, and Crowley, for the first time in six millennia, is at peace. 


End file.
